


With This Blood, Willingly Given

by CaptainNaztyPantz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fem!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12617596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainNaztyPantz/pseuds/CaptainNaztyPantz
Summary: Harry, forced into willingly giving blood for Lord Voldemort's resurrection, finds that nothing is ever truly black and white.





	1. Resurrection

Confronting Professor Quirrel had not been the correct thing to do. She knew that now, but they say that hindsight is always 20/20. Without her, he wouldn’t have been able to even get the stone from that damn mirror. It would have stayed inside, hidden, just like Dumbledore had planned. Without her, Voldemort wouldn’t now be in possession of the sorcerer’s stone. 

Dumbledore had come by her bed earlier, offering her consolations. Even to her eleven year old ears, they sounded plastic and fake. Far too sugary to ever be real. Dumbledore did have a fondness for sweets, she had noticed. 

It was too late now, though, and she could do nothing more for it. Voldemort was gone, probably on to the next stage in his planning. And she was here, stuck in a bed in the infirmary because the man had knocked her around before leaving. She could still feel the sting in her scar from where they had made contact. Next time, she would be better. Next time she would fight back. 

-

The moment she touched the portkey, she immediately knew something was wrong. The curious sensation rushed through her, and she stumbled onto the hard packed earth beneath her. Her aching leg was still bleeding, but she had dealt with worse injuries over the years. Cedric landed beside her, a look of victory painted across his face. 

He jumped, whooping and yelling in victory. “We won! We did it!” He called, but Harry was more focused on their surroundings. She did not know this place, and the grey foggy sky was lending to the unsettled atmosphere. Headstones rose up from the dead ground, their grey tones only contributing a sharp sense of dread to her heart. 

“Where are we?” She wondered out loud, the words thick and heavy on her tongue. She felt like screaming, but her entire body felt heavy. It felt like someone had cast a slow motion charm on her, and she couldn’t break free. 

Cedric was still oblivious, and she needed to warn him. Her visions - 

From the corner of her eye, she saw a dark figure. She tried to cry out, but it was too late. The Death Eater had already thrown a spell at him, disarming him and binding him. Cedric fell over, a look of terror and surprise on his face. The Death Eater threw another spell, and he was out cold. 

“Cedric!” Harry called, taking a step towards him. The Death Eater was already there, though, and he was pointing his wand threateningly at Cedric. 

“Move one more step, little girl, and your friend dies.”

The words effectively stilled her, and she waited for a tense moment. “What do you want?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter what I want. You are here for a reason. Now come - you have made the Dark Lord wait long enough.” The man flicked his wand and muttered a spell, and Cedric’s body rose from the ground and followed behind him as he made his way forward. 

It was kind of a ridiculous sight, but the tension in the air kept her humor suppressed. She followed the man after a moment of hesitance, walking until she could see a great big cauldron in the distance. It was so large that both her and Cedric could probably fit inside. She shuddered, hoping that she would not have to become a potions ingredient. 

A short and dumpy figure came out from behind the cauldron, carrying a small bundle in its arms. When she came closer, her anger and irritation spiked when she saw that the figure was in fact Wormtail. Her fists clenched, her teeth clicking together in anger. She wanted to destroy him for what he’d done. Tear him apart piece by piece. 

She didn’t move forward to do so, however, because she would no doubt be cursed into oblivion by the other Death Eater. So, she reigned it in, narrowing her eyes at the anxious little man. It said a lot about his cowardice that he looked intimidated by her glare. 

“I will kill you some day, Pettigrew,” She finally said, the promise in the air shimmering almost like magic. He flinched, but did not stop what he was doing. 

He leaned down, seemingly listening to the bundle in his arms. Slowly, he nodded, setting it down carefully on the ground. The fabric shifted, and Harry could finally see what was inside. It was a small, shriveled, pathetic creature. Immediately, she knew that this was Voldemort. 

Pettigrew went about drawing sigils around the cauldron, adding potion ingredients and chanting incantations at the already bubbling brew. One of the things he added, which was a bit baffling to her, was a book. She had never heard of a book being put into a potion itself before. 

He stepped up to the cauldron, and in a motion that Harry did not expect, he pulled out a silver dagger and cut his hand off. It landed in the potion without so much as a splash. The liquid was thick and viscous. 

As she hadn’t been expecting it, she cringed, her head turning away from the sight momentarily. Voldemort’s piercing red eyes followed the movement from his bundle of cloth. 

“Now,” said the other Death Eater. She had almost forgotten he was there. “You will go to the cauldron, take the knife, and slice your palm. Allow the blood to fully drip into the potion. Do it now.”

She turned towards him, a scowl on her face. “And what the hell makes you think that I would actually do that?” She asked, anger overpowering her fear for a moment. 

The Death Eater smirked, pointing his wand casually towards a still-floating Cedric. “Because if you don’t, then your friend will die.”

Harry swallowed, hesitating before slowly nodding. “Fine,” she said, voice thick. 

She turned back towards the cauldron, staring at it as if it meant the end of the world. It probably did. She forced herself to be brave and took a step forward. Then another, and another, until she stood at the cauldron. 

Pettigrew offered her the knife, and she looked at it with great contemplation. Slowly, as not to startle the man, she took the knife. Then, after drawing back, she quickly plunged it into his throat. He choked and spluttered, his blood spraying everywhere. It splashed across her face, and she grimaced at the warm wet sensation. 

He gurgled before falling to the ground with a heavy thump, his hands clasped at his slit throat. 

Surprisingly, neither Voldemort nor the Death Eater reprimanded her for it. They were probably done with him, then. 

The fact still remained, though, that she had to bleed into this potion. Or else Cedric would die, and it would be on her hands. 

She took another step closer to the potion, looking down at the disgusting bubbling fluid. She raised her hand and the knife, trying to steel herself for it. 

“You will need to recite a few words while you add your offering,” the Death Eater said behind her, closer now than he had been previously. He had probably walked forward so that she could hear him better. 

She nodded, waiting for further instruction. 

“These are the words you must say: ‘Blood of the enemy, willingly given, I will resurrect my foe’.”

Harry swallowed, hoping that she would remember all of that. “Blood of the enemy, willingly given,” she started, trying to remember the rest of the words, “I will resurrect my foe.” She recited slowly, then, when she was not corrected, slid the silver dagger harshly against her palm. She let out a small noise at the sharp stinging pain of it, her hand clamping down naturally on the wound. 

Her blood spilled into the cauldron, and the potion began to react immediately. The deep blood red of the fluid was quickly turning a blinding white, steam pouring up from the depths of the fluid. 

She backed away quickly, and the Death Eater was walking past her with the bundle of Voldemort in his hands. He placed the small shriveled creature into the cauldron as if it were no more than a warm bath, then he too backed away. 

There was a long moment as they watched white steam pour from the cauldron, almost obscuring the view. Then, the cauldron itself began to melt away and evaporate, as it had never even been there. A tall figure rose from the depths, but it was hard to make out due to the excess steam. 

The figure shifted and moved, obviously taking form as the transformation happened. Then, before the steam even cleared, a man stepped forward. He was very tall and lithe, his hair dark black and shaggy. His cheekbones were high and defined, his eyes a piercing grey color. In this light, they looked metallic blue. 

His eyes settled on Harriett, and she stumbled back, her sliced palm cradled loosely against her chest. The Death Eater stepped forward, offering the cloak that the man had been previously swathed in. Voldemort held his arms out and let the man drape the cloak over him, slowly hiding his previously naked form. 

He then walked towards her, and she resolutely kept her eyes locked on his. She did not want to show fear or weakness. 

He stopped in front of her, his eyes piercing. 

‘This is it,’ she thought. ‘This is the moment I die.’ 

They both completely ignored the Death Eater, who was now prostrating himself on the Earth for his newly remade master. 

“Finally,” he said, voice smooth and deceptively seductive in his new form. He lifted his hand and Harry flinched, turning her head from the finger that was pointed towards her forehead. “I can touch you,” He said, pressing his finger directly to her scar. 

Harry braced for pain, remembering the searing contact she had had with Quirrel. Instead of pain, however, her back was arching into an entirely different sensation. Pure pleasure jolted into her at the point of contact, and she cried out in surprise, sounding too much like a cry of pleasure for her liking. Before she could register it, she was grasping for Voldemort’s hand, her body instinctually wanting to prolong the contact. 

It was obvious from the way that he stiffened that Voldemort felt it as well. He, however, kept his composure under better control. 

Harry, however, was faring rather badly, and her knees had gone completely weak beneath her. The sensation was much too overwhelming, and her knees buckled. She fell to the ground in front of Lord Voldemort’s feet, and he withdrew his hand from her scar. 

She clutched at the hard-packed earth beneath her, the only sensation able to break through the previous onslaught being the cold damp dirt beneath her palms. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she opened them just in time to see Voldemort turning, his face completely impassive. 

“Come now. There are plans that need seeing to.” He said, his dark voice velvet rough and alluring. Briefly, he glanced back at Harry. He raised his wand and shot out a silent spell over his shoulder, like an after-thought. 

Harry was fully braced for death. And yet the spell didn’t come out green, like the killing curse. Instead it - closed the skin on her palm, healing and mending the sliced flesh. 

She was very confused, looking down at the now fully-healed hand. 

And with that, Voldemort apparated away, his servant following seconds afterward. 

She was left sitting on the ground in bewilderment, her eyes finding a still-unconscious Cedric Diggory not far away. No one would ever believe this story. They never did. 

In a daze, she rose to her feet and stumbled forwards to retrieve the portkey. She placed the cup against the unconscious boy’s skin and activated it, hoping that it would take her back to Hogwarts. 

Everyone in the crowd seemed none the wiser when she finally stumbled out of the maze with a shoddily-supported classmate and a shell-shocked expression. Only a select few of the teachers seemed to be even concerned about the state they were in. Everyone else was celebrating the fact that Harry had won the cup and apparently helped Cedric out. 

To her, the hollow victory was the last thing on her mind. How would she even begin to explain what happened? 

Before she dealt with all of that, however, she needed a bath first.


	2. As I'll Ever Be

When the cup had first produced her name along with Cedric Diggory’s, the entire Gryffindor house in general had been spitting mad. How dare she, a Ravenclaw, be chosen over one of the bravest and daring students that Hogwarts supposedly had to offer? If the cup was bent on choosing another champion, why hadn’t it chosen a great Gryffindor as a champion? The fact that Cedric, a Hufflepuff, had been chosen first grated against their prideful egos even more. 

Well, Harry only had one thing to say about all of that: Fuck ‘em. 

‘Do they think that I wanted this?’, she wondered as she sank down into the hot prefect’s bath with a sigh. If they wanted her position so bad, then she would trade with any one of them at any time. They could have all of the aching muscles and confusion surrounding Voldemort’s reappearance. And perhaps even more worrying, his lack of murdering her when he had the chance. 

So he must have a good reason for keeping her alive. That grim realization had her more worried for the wizarding world than it did for her own life. She stared into the bubbles with a grave expression as if she could read the future from them. If only it could be so easy. 

Alas, the bubbles remained just as translucent as the true future. Pity.

Still, she had to figure out what to do about all of this. She supposed that she should tell Headmaster Dumbledore about this whole situation, but that could wait until she didn’t feel like immediately keeling over. She didn’t think she had the energy to deal with his dismissive attitude at the moment. 

Instead, her thoughts turned to Voldemort. 

What puzzled her was the sensation that had rendered her completely helpless when he had . . . touched her. She pressed her lips together in a thin line, not wanting to think about what had happened. She knew what she had felt, but she was not at all sure why it had occurred. He had only touched her forehead. 

She sank lower in the bath, blowing bubbles into the water with her nose. Hermione was worried about her, she knew, but reassuring her wasn’t Harry’s top priority right now. On top of that, the rest of the school’s biggest worry at the moment was the end of the year dance. It was a pompous load of bollocks if you asked her. 

Not that anyone had asked her. To the dance, that is. 

She sat up and sighed, bringing her knees to her chest. There was still dirt and blood beneath her fingernails, in her hair. Maybe that’s why no one had asked her; she attracted death by just existing. It was only pure luck that she and Cedric were still here. 

She reached for the bar soap, scrubbing it all along her body and trying to wash off Wormtail’s blood; Voldemort’s touch. 

It wasn’t just his touch that she was trying to wash off, though; it was his presence. Though their contact had only been very brief, she still felt his presence acutely, sparking through her like electricity. Somehow, that touch had felt . . . right, somehow. 

The concept was exceedingly wrong to her to think about it, but she could not deny what she had experienced. It was as if there had been a unity between them in those few moments, and it had been intense. It terrified her beyond belief, and it made her feel sick in her chest. Who could she inform about any of this without feeling like . . . well, a traitor, first of all. 

Harry let out a loud, frustrated yell, throwing the soap across the tub as she leaned back and submerged her hair in the water. The tub was so deep that she did a back float. 

She wished fervently that she could just be normal and only be worried about this stupid upcoming ball. That she only had to think about which color best matched her complexion, if she should wear high heels or not. Hair ribbons? Curls or straight? What lip color would go best? 

But all she could think about was high cheekbones, shaggy black hair, and piercing grey blue eyes. His skin was almost bone pale, his limbs and fingers long and elegant. It was hard to admit that Voldemort’s reincarnation was beautiful, but it was also very hard to not admit something that is quite obviously apparent. 

She wanted to bang her head against a stone wall until she lost her memory, but she was too tired for even that at the moment. It took quite a bit just to muster up the strength to drag herself out of the bath, put on clothes, and get herself to bed. 

 

Thankfully Quidditch was over for the year, because she was hardly able to move the next day, despite Madame Pomfrey healing her cuts and bruises after the whole ordeal. Classes went on as usual, though they were pretty much winding down for the end of the year. She still had not said anything about Voldemort’s resurrection to anyone, and honestly, at this point she was afraid to. 

Dumbledore always spoke in riddles and was usually no help at all. Hermione, though she meant well and knew most everything about most things, couldn’t exactly give her advice about a newly reformed dark lord. So really she was tongue-tied about the whole thing since she didn’t really know who to turn to for help. 

She wondered what exactly Cedric remembered of the whole encounter. At lunch she caught up to him, giving a wave. “Hey, Cedric - “ but he did a complete about-face turn, walking away from her immediately. 

It made Harry stop short, blinking in hurt confusion. Hermione, who was beside her during the whole encounter, put her hands on her hips, looking miffed. “You’d think he’d be more grateful since you did carry him through the last trial.”

Harry’s shoulders fell, and she felt more than a little dejected. So Cedric was avoiding her now, huh? She probably should have expected this. 

Hermione saw her friend’s expression and grabbed her arm, leading her to the table. “Ignore him, Harry. He obviously doesn’t understand manners.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to cheer up for Hermione’s benefit. 

“So, do you know what you’re going to wear to the ball yet?” Hermione asked. It was obvious that she was just trying to change the subject; neither of them particularly cared about the dance. 

“Mmm, not really . . . I don’t own anything particularly dressy.”

“What? Harry! I am taking you dress shopping this weekend. Thankfully there’s still a little time.”

Harry nodded, though her face projected the dubiousness she felt. “Thankfully,” she echoed, trying to sound at least a tiny bit excited at the prospect. Neither of them cared for such things, but Harry knew that Hermione was trying her best to cheer her up. 

They were friends because neither of them quite fit in with the rest of the group of girls. Hermione was into reading and research, and Harry was more into Quidditch and sports. All the other girls were into gossip about boys, makeup, and clothes. 

It’s not that Harry didn’t want to be their friend, but she felt rather lost in their conversations; especially when it came to makeup and clothes. She had grown up wearing her cousin Dudley’s hand-me-downs (which didn’t exactly flatter her figure), and the talk about boys. . . well . . . she hadn’t really been much interested in romance. She did wish that these things came more naturally to her like they seemed to with the other girls. 

Soon enough the weekend came and Hermione dragged her out to all the different clothes shops, robe makers, shoe sellers, and makeup counters. Hermione cooed and cawed about which color dress she should get (a dark green to match her eyes), what material, how it was cut. Matching low heels, a green ribbon for her hair. Harry decided that for makeup, she was simply going to wear mascara and clear lipgloss. Hermione approved. 

After all of this, she finally had all of the supplies for the dance ready. All except for an actual escort to the party. Hermione had confessed that Viktor Krum had asked her. Harry congratulated her with a wide smile and a pat on the shoulder. She also wagged her eyebrows suggestively, leaving Hermione to blush and splutter, “Harry!”

Harry laughed, thinking it funny that she could so easily scandalize her friend. She herself had never been sheltered at all in that regard, though no one had ever made it a point to educate her on the subject either. She had mostly learned from romance novels and anatomy books. Some from TV. 

The girls in their dorm would also talk about sex occasionally, either loudly teasing and vulgar or in hushed whispers that were never quite low enough. Harry was indifferent to the subject; it’s not as if any of the boys at Hogwarts had exactly caught her eye anyway. 

Still, she got ready for the dance. Her dress had a built-in corset which she had Hermione lace as tightly as it would go, pushing up her adequately-sized breasts. She put a curling charm on her hair, letting it rest in soft waves instead of the usual unkempt mess it was. After that, she also enlisted Hermione’s help with her makeup. 

After she was completely ready, even she couldn’t deny that she looked beautiful as she stepped into the view of the mirror. Hermione looked at her with admiration in her eyes. “You look gorgeous, Harry. Everyone who didn’t ask you to the dance is an idiot.”

Harry flushed with the praise. “Thank you, Hermione. I kind of feel like a princess, or maybe a bride.”

Hermione got a pensive look on her face; the same face she got whenever she was connecting the dots to some crucial puzzle. “You know, it wasn’t so long ago that royalty got married off at this age. It actually used to be the norm, and if you weren’t betrothed to someone before the age of 16 then it was assumed that you were an outcast.”

Harry blinked at her best friend, wondering where the sudden shift in mood had come from. “Um, okay.”

“It was mostly for particularly strong families, but it was also used as a means to protect someone who hadn’t come into their wealth or power yet.” Hermione continued, moving on to her own makeup. 

Harry nodded along with her friend’s words, knowing that sometimes when Hermione went off on a tangent, it was best to just ride it out. “But how could it be used as protection if the other person is also 15 or 16?” Harry asked.

“Oh, that’s because they would always pair them with an age gap. Of course this practice stopped a very long time ago in the muggle world, but wizards only stopped less than a century ago. Because wizards live a lot longer than muggles, the age gap is more socially acceptable. After all, what’s a ten year difference when witches and wizards live for over two hundred years? What’s a twenty year difference?”

“They really did that?” Harry asked, incredulous. “But that would be like marrying someone as old as your parents.”

Hermione shrugged, looking at her makeup critically in the mirror as she checked for mistakes. “It didn’t matter so much, I suppose.”

Harry hummed, her mind rudely bringing her back to Voldemort. She idly wondered what it would be like to be betrothed to a man that old, but then realized her thoughts and ripped herself away from them. She could not be actually thinking that, right? She gave herself a little mental warning shake, and smiled when Hermione turned to her. 

“Ready?”

“I suppose.”


End file.
